


Thorn and Rowan Drabbles

by RittaPokie



Series: Tales From the Dragon Age [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:06:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/pseuds/RittaPokie
Summary: Takes place sometime during the 2nd blight





	1. He Is A We

He is sure that the others notice something off about the Mage. They have to. No matter how much time they spend together, no matter how long he has been trapped in this body (twenty years, now), he will never  _be_ Rowan. Just as he will never  _be_ the person whose memories he has.

Alistair, in particular, notices. The blond keeps glancing at him, wondering why he is not more torn up over the slaughter of everyone he knows. The former Templar trainee must be able to know an abomination when he sees one.

It is not as if he  _wanted_ take the body. Rowan could not handle the state that the circle tower is in. Full of guilt,  _could have done something_ , disgust, _how dare I not be here_. He would have lost himself. In a way, he still did, but not permanently.

Alistair corners him while the others loot the area, feigning concern for his friend, but his eyes are hard and scared. A demon has invaded someone he knows, and he  _knows_ , but it has not attacked. He cannot understand that. "Rowan?" he asks, voice a low whisper. "Is this still you."

He opens his mouth but no words come out. He has never spoken. It has been centuries since the real Thorn spoke, as well. He swallows and tries again. "No." Thorn's memories flood him along with their corrupted and tainted haze, spilling tinges of red into his vision before it clears, leaving tingling and pounding in his head-Rowan's head. Whenever he moves in this world, he becomes _more_. It is frightening.

Alistair's hand is on his sword, but he does not draw it.

"I do not wish any of you harm." he says. "Rowan could not go on during this...this is his home..."

Alistair nods. "How...how long have you...?"

"All his life." he says. "Rowan has always been sensitive to the fade, and very powerful. He summoned and bound me when he was very, very young. It was an accident. He does not know how to break the binding. Neither do I. So, I am here."

Alistair nods. "You don't _sound_ like a demon."

"I am not." he says. "At least, I do not think I am. I have the memories of someone who is not me, who died long ago. I do not remember how I got them. Or perhaps I am him, and have lost the connection to myself in the fade. I do not intend to stay in control. When Rowan believes he is ready, I will let go. For now, I will help you in your quest."

\---

To his surprise, Alistair tells no one. He does keep a close eye on Rowan's body. When they are free of the tower and its horrors and back at camp, he approaches again.

"Do you know why Rowan is having such a hard time with the taint?" Alistair asks. "He hides it from all of us, but... I've noticed."

"He is very sensitive to the fade, and he has died before. I saved him from that. Now, the taint and blood magic. His entire existence is getting weaker, more in the fade and less in the world of the living. The scale is shifting more and more to the former with each passing day."

"Oh..." Alistair averts his eyes. He has lost so many of his fellow Wardens already. Seeing this in Alistair is a pang of something  _supposed to experience this, my purpose_.

"Most Grey Wardens get 30 years. Some even get 50, but it is rare. Rowan will get a year at most, almost definitely less. It is not death that naturally awaits Wardens, it is something much worse. If you do not die in the deep roads when your times come, you turn into Ghouls, mindless servants of the darkspawn. When Rowan's time comes, his dreams will get worse, his skin will pale, he will bleed easier, he will be nauseous and dizzy almost constantly. The dark circles under his eyes will deepen. He will start to lose all his teeth to make room for the new, carnivorous ones that will grow. His hair will turn white, perhaps fall out, his fingernails will turn black and sharpen. At first, it will be subtle, but then there will be no question about what is happening to him. When this happens, take him to the Circle tower, not the deep roads."

"What?" Alistair meets his eyes again. "Why?"

"So that..." he shakes his head. "You are going to take this the wrong way. To have magical energy to draw on so that I can stave off the taint until his spirit is on the brink of death, so that I can take control of the body."

Alistair absolutely takes it the wrong way. "I can't...I can't let you do that."

"I know you think that it is for my own selfish wishes that I ask you this, but it is not. Our bonded spirits mean that his body cannot die unless both of our spirits do. If I cannot take the body, then the Ghoul will take it. He will be a tool for the darkspawn, and he will crush  _all of you_." he says quickly. "You do not understand the depth of his power.  _He_ does not. The archdemon will."

"I-I...."

"And...there is someone in the tower who must be allowed to say goodbye. There are so few good Templars. This one cannot be lost to grief, not yet..." he says. "It is not his time."


	2. Thorn Prime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place sometime during the 2nd blight

He sees the boy go down from across the market, tumbling down the alley-way stairs. His mother cries out and flails, trying to catch him, but she is too late. The boy lands with a crack. The mother rushes down the stairs and kneels next to her son's broken form, wailing. The boy coughs blood and groans.

The child will not live without healing, the elf knows, but he hesitates. Magic is illegal in this land. He only just escaped confinement. Does he really want to risk this?

The mother screams into the crowd forming "Someone help!" and the elf's feet move of their own accord. He cannot stand by and do nothing. It just is not in his nature.

He nudges people aside and kneels over the boy. He knows how this will end, with so many people around. If he is not bludgeoned by the crowd, Templars will come. He will not escape. But this child has his whole life ahead, unmarred by magic and woe. He deserves to live a little more.

The elf raises his hands and warm light forms and flutters around them, seeping into the child. The boy's bones crack as they reset and he sobs. The elf winces and puts more power behind the healing, draining his mana dry. It is not as if he will need it again after this.

He uses the crowd's shock to stand and stumble free of them, but they all turn their eyes after a few seconds. "Abomination!" One of them shouts, and a hush falls over the murmuring crowds. "Someone get the Templars!"

"What about Templars?" A voice from behind the elf says, and he whirls around, faced with the emblem of a flaming sword. A group of four Templars stand before him. His eyes widen. He is gripped with terror and finds himself unable to move.

"That rabbit's a Mage." The person who shouted says.

"Is that so?"

The elf regains control of his legs and tries to flee, but the Templar leader swipes his dagger across his face, leaving a gash over his left eye. The would itself is not that bad, but something about it feels...wrong.

He peers up through blood and sees the head of a hurlock handing from rope in one of the Templar's hands. His breath stills. "Take him down to the cells." The Templar says. "Let the blight be his punishment."

\---

The elf is not sure how much time has passed. He counted eight days clearly, but the fever got worse after that and he has not been lucid often. A young woman's wailing draws his attention even through his delirium and he stumbles through his cell until he hits bars and the screaming is loudest. He rubs his one good eye until he can see through the dust in the dark and sees a pregnant woman. Why anyone would put her in such a filthy place, he does not know. In a blight, new life should be precious; it replaces lost numbers, they will be needed for the next blight.

She moans in pain but her eyes meet his. "Something is wrong." She says, terrified. "It doesn't feel right. It's like last time when the babe died. It can't happen again, it can't, I need it...I'm so alone and I- I need-" she breaks off in sobs.

"Closer, I can help." He says through cracked lips. His voice is hoarse because they are rarely given water. "If you do not fear a Mage."

She falters but shifts closer to the bars separating them. Desperation destroys fear. "If you can help, I don't care what you are."

He places his hands on her swollen belly and feels it harden under his hands as she wails again. Someone further down the hall yells "shut up".

"Have you ever helped a baby into the world before?" She asks when she can speak again.

He cannot answer, half gone in delirium again. Fortunately, he has assisted a great many births. His old master bred elves to make the perfect pet, and babies were carefully tended by healers. This has become habit and he does not need to be lucid.

He comes back to himself when the baby cries. He sees through bleary eyes as the mother sobs and pulls her child into her arms. He does not know how they will fare in such an environment, but he cannot. He blacks out completely, feeling his head hit straw before he descends into nothingness.

\---

He is wrenched conscious some time later by a splash of cold water. He splutters and coughs as he is dragged out of the cell to the gallows in the city. Fear does not touch him at this stage, fever too great for emotions to get through. "You're taking to fucking long." The Templar from before hisses as the executioner slips a noose around his neck.

"The woman with the baby." He says, "Is she still down there?"

"Her family came for her." The executioner answers.

"Shut up." The Templar snarls at the man. "Don't talk to it, you're not trained."

"Sorry, sir."

The elf sighs in relief. That is all that matters now, that the person he helped is safe. The noose is tightened and he closes his eyes. He would prefer not to be in this situation, but the blight is a suffering and he is ready to die. Before the floor is dropped from beneath him, he hears a shout from the crowd gathering to see the execution.

"Wait!" A red-haired woman yells as she steps onto the gallows. "Release him at once. I invoke the rite of conscription." Her armor is marked by a griffon. The Templar's face twists into malice, but he signals the executioner to do as she says.

"I don't know what you want with him. He's had the blight for two weeks." He says. "Can't have much life in him now. And he's a fucking Mage."

"It's not your decision." She says, and hauls the elf to his feet. She slips an arm under his and helps him stumble down from the gallows. He slips out of consciousness again.

\---

He awakens in a bed for the first time and gasps in pain at the wet cloth dabbing his wound. "Shhh, you're safe now." A younger woman says. 

She has the same tired red ringing under her eyes as all Templars and his breath hitches in fear. "You're a Mage-Hunter." He mumbles.

"Not anymore." She says softly. "I didn't like the life, so when the captain came through my village, I convinced her to take me."

"The Templar at the gallows said I had the blight for two weeks?" He says.

"Captain chose well." She says, sounding surprised. "I've never seen anyone wake this fast from the joining."

"Joining?"

"Maker, you don't even remember?" He shakes his head. "Did you dream anything?"

"I feel...different. Not as ill." He says. "Dreams? No...not really. Nothing different from the past week."

"I'm impressed with this one, captain." She calls behind her.

The redhead comes to sit beside her. "Not that I asked, but I'm glad. I knew he'd be fine." She turns her attention to the elf. "How do you feel?"

He falters under scrutiny. "I...I think so..."

"What's your name?" The other woman asks.

He opens his mouth to speak, but says nothing for a moment. "Nothing, no one gave me one."

"Ah, I thought I knew that accent." The redhead says. "Master didn't name his pets?" She scowls.

"Just the favorites." He answers.

"We'll think of something. How about for now, we'll call you 'recruit'? That work for you?" She asks.

"It is fine, thank you." He feels warmth blossom in his chest. No one has ever addressed him by anything that wasn't an insult, nor asked his opinion.


End file.
